Chapter XII
The Favourite of the Fates.

One night there was not a breath of
air, and I could not sleep. I tossed this way
and that for hours, and directly the birds began
to twitter, I put on my things and slipped back
the bolt of the grand hall door. Once outside,
it was beautifully fresh and cool, and the clouds
in the sky were like wreaths of pink flowers
on a turquoise sea, arched over with gleaming
gold. They changed every moment, and while
I watched them I forgot to look where I was
going. When I stopped at last I found myself in the middle of the market place, where
I had been with Father the day before.

It was empty now for no one was yet
awake but me.

Among the quaint old wooden houses I
noticed one that I had not seen before; at first
it seemed to be indistinct, but the longer I
stared at it, the clearer it grew. Over the door
of the tiny shop was the figure of a hen cut into
the stone, and while I was wondering who had
carved it, the wings fluttered gently toward me.
The bird moved its head, and its wings were
lifted; it flew to the ground, and a lovely white
hen was at my feet. It looked at me wistfully,
and flew away; when I turned to the little
house once again, it was not there. But beside
me stood the Fairy Godmother.

"Come and sit in the shade," she said, when
I asked her what had become of the hen, "and
I will tell you all about her. She is seeking
Furicchia, whom she served so well, not
knowing that she is a shadow too."

The Enchanted Hen.

"Furicchia," said the Fairy Godmother,
"was a very poor woman who owned a hen
which an innkeeper greatly coveted. The
shape of the bird was perfect; it had a
most melodious voice, and its feathers were
glossy and white as snow.

'Come now, good dame,' the man cried,
persuasively, 'I will give you double the
market value of your little hen, for I wish
to make a present of her to the widow Ursula,
whom I intend to espouse.'

'But the widow might kill and eat her!'
said Furicchia, looking lovingly at the little
hen, which she had brought up by hand from
a tiny chick. It had slept beneath her best
silk 'kerchief, and taken its food from her lips.

'That is as may be,' he replied. 'Come,
Furicchia, I make you a handsome offer. Give
me the hen, and you shall fare well next feast
day.'

But Furicchia would not listen, in spite of
the sad fact that her cupboard was as empty
as her netted purse. The little hen was dear
to her, though as yet it had lain no eggs, and
she would not sacrifice her to her needs.

Ere evening came, Coccodé was clucking
gaily under the kitchen table, and Furicchia
found, not one egg, but three, all a rich coffee
brown, and polished like porcelain. Having
joyfully exchanged one with a neighbour for
a dish of broth, she broke the second into it,
and prudently saving the third for next day,
thankfully made a good meal. When morning
came, she found eggs to the number of a round
dozen strewn about her tiny room, and from
being almost on the verge of starvation, she
had plenty now and to spare. For Coccodé,
the grateful creature, laid eggs by the score,
and not only were they of exquisite flavour
and very large, but it was noticed that if sick
folk ate them, they straightway returned to
health.

Furicchia was now a famous egg-wife, and
the more eggs she sold, the more eggs Coccodé
laid. The little hen was both willing and
industrious, and loved her kind mistress so
dearly that she was never so happy as when
helping to make her fortune. Her pride in
Furicchia's first silk gown was comical to
witness; she rustled her wings against its
handsome folds, and clucked so loudly that
the neighbours heard, and came to see what
was the matter.

This silken gown it was that roused the
anger of the Signora, a wealthy woman who
had much, and knew no better than to want
more. Hearing of the prodigious number of
eggs which Furicchia supplied, though no one
had ever seen her with other than a single
hen, she set afoot much scandal concerning
her, ending by declaring her to be an evil
Witch. At this, Furicchia's neighbours began
to look askance at her; but the eggs were so
good, and so moderate in price, that on second
thoughts they decided to treat the Signora's
hints with the contempt which they deserved.

This made the lady still more angry; she
resolved to find out Furicchia's secret, and
ruin her if she could, so that she might obtain
her customers for her own eggs. Coccodé was
quite aware of what was going on, and before
her mistress went out one morning she bade
her fetch certain herbs that grew on a corner
of barren land, and put these on the fire in a
pot of wine.

'And now, dear mistress,' she continued,
when all had been done as she said, 'do you
go out and trust your luck to Coccodé.'

Furicchia had not long been gone, when
the Signora's crafty face peeped slyly round
the door. Finding the room apparently empty,
she hurried in, delighted at such an opportunity
for prying. First she peered here, and then
she peered there, ransacking Furicchia's chests,
and even turning over the leaves of her holy
books, that she might see if an incantation to
Witches had been written therein. Finally,
she raised the latch of the inner chamber,
where she had heard Coccodé clucking.

'I have found out Furicchia's secret now,'
she thought with glee. 'Her little white hen
is under a spell, and she and it shall be
burnt as Witches.'

Coccodé was sitting on a pile of eggs that
reached almost up to the ceiling, and even as
she clucked she was laying more. The
Signora drew close to her, and listened with
all her ears, for she had distinguished words
amidst her cluckings, and immediately jumped
to the conclusion that Coccodé believed herself
to be addressing her mistress. This is what
she heard:

'Coccodé! now there are nine!
Bring me quickly the warm red wine.
Coccodé! take them away
Many more for thee will I lay.
And thou shalt be a lady grand,
As fine as any in the land,
And should it happen that any one
Drinks of the wine as I have done,
Eggs like me she shall surely lay;
This is the secret, this is the way,
Coccodé! Coccodé!'

1Leyland's 'Legends of Florence'

'Aha!' said the Signora joyfully, 'now I
have it!' And running back to the outer room,
she lifted the wine off the fire and drank it,
every drop, though it scalded her throat and
made her choke. As it coursed through her
veins she felt a most extraordinary sensation,
and hurried home as quickly as she could.
A meal was laid on the table, but she found
great difficulty in taking her usual place, and
could eat nothing but some brown bread,
which she pecked at in a most curious manner.
As the charm began to work, her legs grew
thinner and thinner, and her feet so large that
she had to cut off her boots. Next, her brown
silk dress became a bundle of draggled feathers,
while her nose turned into a beak, and her voice
into a discordant cluck; in short, she was just
a scraggy brown hen, and her friends held up
their hands in horror. Eggs she laid by the
score, but before she could sit on them they turned
to mice and ran away. So she had nothing for
all her trouble; and though she possessed a
handsome house, she could only perch in a barn.

This is what comes of greed and envy, and
of meddling with other people's business."

Just at this moment a girl darted out of a
doorway opposite, followed by an elderly woman
who loudly reproved her for refusing to do her
share in some household task. Shrugging
her shoulders, she came to a sudden end, as
if she knew that her breath was wasted, and
the girl disappeared with a peal of laughter.

"She is off to gossip instead of work," said
the Fairy Godmother disapprovingly. "She
will pay for it later, will pretty Ursula, for
the Fates are not likely to interfere on her
behalf as they did for Pepita."

I had to coax her to tell me this story, for she
said she had much to do, and could not stay.
But when she heard that the very next day
Father and I were leaving Italy, she refused
no more. We sat down on the step of a
splendid church, and no one seemed to notice us.

The Favourite of the Fates.

"Troubles rolled off Pepita as water from
a duck's back. So lighthearted and full of
good humour was she that nought ever seemed
to vex her, and no one living had ever heard
an unkind word fall from her rosy lips. Even
the three grim Fates, who rule over mortal
destinies, relaxed their stern brows as they
looked down on her, and smiled indulgently.

Pepita was slender as a swallow, with a
warm red flush on her olive cheeks, and dainty
hands that looked far too delicate and small
for even the lighter household tasks. These,
indeed, Pepita seldom attempted, singing
instead from morn to eve, and charming her
mother with soft caresses when she hardened
her heart and tried to scold her.

But Pepita could spin. Ah yes, she could
spin, and as no other maiden had ever been
known to do since Arachne was changed
into a spider. The snowy flax flew from
under her fingers as though her distaff were
enchanted; which, indeed, was the case, for
the wayward Fates had bestowed upon her a
magic gift, and having given her this, not
even they could take it away from her.

Pepita's mother was often wroth with her,
for the dame had much work on her hands,
and sighed that her only daughter should give
her so little help. Were the maiden sent to
wash clothes in the stream, ten chances to one
they would go floating down the current while
she twisted flowers in her hair. Were she
set to make sweet little chestnut cakes, she
would forget to put a cool green leaf at the
bottom of each round baking dish, and when
they were taken out of the ashes, behold, they
would be all burnt!

'You are a good-for-nothing!' her mother
would cry angrily; but this was not true, for
Pepita could spin.

One feast day, while her mother went to the
fair, she was told to watch the pentola, and
to stir it carefully if it boiled too fast. It was
made of rice and good fresh meat, with
vegetables from the little garden; and it smelt
so delicious that Pepita's small nostrils quivered
like the petals of a rose on a windy day.

'I will taste it to see that all is well,' she
murmured, and drawing back the iron pot,
she helped herself to a liberal portion.

The pentola was good; Pepita tasted it yet
again, for she had been up early to go to
Mass, and had sung herself hungry on the
way home. Soon there was no meat left.

'Ah, what shall I do?' she sighed, 'My
mother will scold me terribly, and will tell
the Padre that I am greedy.'

She was sighing still when her eyes fell on
an old leather shoe which had been cast away
behind the door. Her face all dimpled with
mischief, Pepita soused this under a tap, and
threw it into the soup.

'They will but think that the meat is
tough!' she cried with a burst of laughter;
but as the shoe fell into the boiling liquid her
mother crossed the threshold.

'What have you done?' demanded she,
peering into the pot. 'Madonnamia! Was
ever an honest woman cursed with such a
daughter?' And breathing out angry hopes
that an Ogre would come and take her, she
drove Pepita out of the house.

At that moment a rich young merchant
was strolling by, and Pepita unwittingly
rushed into his arms. A thing such as this
had never happened to him before, and since
he scarce knew what to do, he clasped her
tightly while he considered. By the time he
released her, Pepita's face was pink as apple
blossom, and the tears that sparkled on it
were for all the world like dewdrops on the
petals of a flower. Something stirred in his
breast, and he blushed even more than she;
for when a man falls suddenly in love he
knows not where he stands. Looking from
one to the other, the wrath of Pepita's mother
suddenly cooled.

'Take her to wife,' she said, 'and you'll not
get a bad bargain. True, she is nought in
the house, but she can spin. And with all
her faults she is not a scold.'

'One wants more in a wife than that!' said
the merchant shrewdly, though the last of her
statements went far with him, since his mother
had a tongue. Looking into Pepita's eyes,
which were heavenly blue, and sweet as an
angel's, he lost his last qualm of doubt, and
lifted her hand to his lips. Then he turned
once more to the elder woman. 'I have
vowed to my mother I will not wed without
her free consent, but if your daughter meets
with her approval, I will gladly do as you say.'

Guido's mother was in her seventieth year,
and though she had never beheld a face more
winning than merry Pepita's, it did not please
her, and she gave her mind to finding a task
which would prove beyond her powers.

'The garden paths are green with weeds,'
she quavered; 'they have been sadly neglected
since Pietro fell ill. Take the hoe, and root
them up; leave not a single one.'

'Nay, mother! I seek not a gardener for
my wife!' her son protested hotly, for Pepita's
small hands could barely lift the hoe, and he
had set his heart on her.

'Unless the paths be clear of weeds ere the
sun sets, I will not give thee my consent,'
said the old woman obstinately; and there
was nothing left for Pepita to do but to hoe up
the weeds as best she could.

No sooner had Guido's mother ceased
watching her from the window, than Pepita
whistled gently, and swift at her call came the
birds she had fed with crumbs when the
fields were bare. Pointing to the weeds, she
made signs to them to destroy them, and by
the time the old mother awoke from her nap,
not one was left behind. This vexed her
instead of giving her pleasure, for she did not
wish her son to marry, and telling her maids
they might have a holiday, she commanded
Pepita to prepare the evening meal.

The maiden was now in much perplexity,
for she knew not how to cook, and her
experience that morning with the pentola had
taught her little. But the Brownies who
dwelt behind the hearth, and love to see a fair
young face bending over the pots and pans
bade her be not discouraged, for they would
stand her friends.

Then the nimble little men flew hither and
thither, fetching garlic and oil and meat and
rice in just the proportions that Guido loved,
and adding certain secret flavours of their own
until the smell of the broth made the old
woman's mouth water, and she could not but
praise Pepita's cooking. When it came to
the time to test her skill at spinning, she was
completely reconciled to her son's choice, and
put no obstacles in the way of the wedding.

And now Pepita sang more blithely than
ever, for though he was less well favoured,
and slower of speech than many a young
man who had wooed her, she adored her
husband. She was as happy as the day was
long until, wishing to have the biggest bank
account as well as the prettiest wife in the
neighbourhood, he took it into his head to
turn her talent for spinning to account, and
kept her beside her distaff from morn till eve.

'I shall soon, at this rate, be richer even
than the notary,' he thought, as he looked
delighted at his stores of flax; and Pepita
besought him in vain to give her a little rest,
for he could be as obstinate as his mother.

It was now that the Fates interfered on her
behalf, though many more worthy than she
are left to shift for themselves.

'She has lost her bloom!' sighed one grim
sister.

'Her cheeks are hollow!' observed the
second.

'Her songs are sad ones!' said the third
with a dreadful frown. And then they put
their heads together, and formed a plan whereby Guido might be outwitted.

As he sat in the doorway that evening while
Pepita span, denying himself the sight of her
in order that her work might not be disturbed,
there came up the garden path a hideous old
hag, who besought him to give her alms.

'Look at me, Signor!' she groaned, lifting
her head so that he saw the wrinkled folds
that lapped her chin. 'Once I was fair as
your Pepita, but I sat so long at my spinning
wheel, that all my comeliness left me.'

Guido hastily gave her a coin, and urged
her to begone; for he did not want Pepita to
see her, or to hear what she had to say.

Next eve came a second old woman, uglier,
if possible, than the last, and bent like some
brutish beast. She had the same story to tell
him of bygone loveliness, and Guido sped her
down the hill with even more haste than before.

The next night a third old woman appeared,
so dread of aspect that he was obliged to avert
his gaze. Against his wish, he felt himself
constrained to enquire the cause of her terrible
affliction.

'I sat at my wheel, good master,' was the
reply, 'until beauty and sight both left me,
and my skin became even as you see.'

Now thoroughly alarmed, he dismissed her
quickly with a handful of coins, and calling
Pepita to him, gazed at her long and
searchingly. When the flush that his now
unaccustomed touch had brought to her sweet
face faded, he saw she was pale and thin.
Her mouth drooped sadly, and purple shadows
brooded round her eyes. With a cry of
remorse he drew her to his breast, and kissed
her tenderly.

'You shall spin no longer, my Pepita,' he
said, 'for I would rather have you as you are
than be rich as Satan himself!'"

And this was the very last story I heard.
We started for home next morning, and I
went to school at the half term–a ripping
school where there was any amount of
cricket, and so many other games that I had
no time to think of Fairies.

But some day I'm going to find the Peri,
and those other wonderful Sprites and
Goblins of which Titania told me when I
met her in the wood that Christmas day.